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Category: Poetry

Bloeisel

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 6 July, 2009

Vat s’blief ‘n kans met my
Dans onder die maan met my
Kom sit ‘n bietjie langs my
Ek wil voel hoe jou hitte
My eensaamheid weg spoel

Sal jy my geheime aanvaar;
My onmoontlikhede verstaan?
Met jou vingers teen my bo-been
Kan ek begin bestaan?

Die krieke skenk sterlig aan my skade;
Begin ‘n serenade…
My veraaiende gedagtes vergeet om my te bedrieg
My magteloose misdade begin selfmoord pleeg

My lyf dryf na jou toe soos ‘n vlieg na ‘n vrug en ‘n mot na ‘n lig
Jou mag trek my in soos ‘n magneet ‘n stuk metaal sou bekoor

Jou bedoeling word my doel
Is dit ook hoe jy voel?

Jou arms hou my vas
Van binne af
En tyd vergeet
Om te verjaar

Ek sien jou donker oë
Deur natuur se groen gordyne
Jy word myne

My siel gegeur met blomme,
Bars kleurfolle ballonne
Die dromme in my hart basyn

Ek skeer, skree
Ek skyn…

Ek verjaar al weer stadig

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 22 June, 2009

Jou woorde is soos takke
Jou sinne, spinnerakke.
Ek sê, “Lees vir my gidigte
Wat proe soos grond en gras en vryheid en vrugte.”
Jou oë word duiwel donker
En jy maak ‘n sirkel met jou hande om die maan.
“Ek verjaar al weer stadig,” se jy.
“Hoe kan jy dit verstaan?”

Lists

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 1 June, 2009

When I met you I became obsessed with them – made a ruling of my life by them.
A page filled with bullets making up points of how I wanted to do right by you.

Listing ways I could improve myself – prioritising objects I wanted to
own so that you’d love me –
Microwave
Television
Branded clothing.

Things I would deny myself –
Chocolate cake
Friends
Walking barefoot.

Page upon page of numbers written in their margins –
Laugh more
Eat less
Don’t show jealousy.

Letters and numbers swimming in my head
Deliciously coming together to form
The me I wanted to be for you.

One day you came to me like a stranger
And I saw my days were marginally numbered
And the bullets had blown up my only shot at keeping you.

Everything scattered then – like fridge poetry.
And you just left me there….
Listless.

– 17/01/03

Liquid oxygen

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 14 April, 2009

Here I am again
Standing at the foot of that hill of my dreams
I feel it again
My eyes filled with tear gas that doesn’t let me cry
And I’m waving goodbye
To liquid oxygen.

There I go again
Thinking with my head clamp on
Waiting with my chastity belt on
Choking on liquid oxygen

At the bottom of that hill with no ascend
I taught myself to drown.

– 02/11/1998

She is me

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 8 March, 2009

She is free
She lives her life as a book with intricate pages
I can smell them on her. I smell books on my mother. She reeks of their shrieking, pongs of their pulsing.

I cry her a book
With my tears, I mold a wet life for us
My mother makes me cry because she is in me
When I whisper, her eyes close
When she whispers, I become still.

Mother, when I was small, you had broad arms and strong wrists for me
You still carry me in a variety of ways.

Now, I want to carry you – your body, your heart, your soul
I will make myself so strong that I can carry it all – on my back, with my arms, inside my mouth

The day you placed me outside of you, I never wanted to let go.
I pulled, you pushed.
You pulled and I pushed.

The friction caused a dictionary.
And we rewrote our souls. Our soul twins.

I’ll never let you go, wherever you are…

Where is the child?

Published by Ilva Pieterse on 29 December, 2008

There is a little girl with a marble torch that shines nothing but the colour she is made of. And the strings, like that of a marionette that keep her alive – and moving – are attached to the hand of one she does not recognise. Little puppet, little puppet, lick my skin.

Faulty fingers molest her moving. And she becomes bright – like something unrecognisable to God. And she twists her hips in longing, in revolt, to a moth that is drawn to her and refuses to die. She slaps her skin, reddens the blue to create a purple so devoid of anything, she lacks the strength to cry. She lacks the will to breathe.

My body is an alligator. Mirrors detest me. Men’s eyes pest me. And every time I blink I am a little less of what I was before. And a little more of what I could’ve been.